1000 Kisses: 68 That Time on the Balcony, During a Ministry Party
by MzElektra
Summary: Life is made up of millions of moments. Relationships are made up of thousands of kisses. Each one is its own story. (This is an ongoing series of vignettes of Harry & Draco's relationship. In no particular order. Think of the numbers as the order they're recalled in by them, but I'm relating them as I choose.) Inspired by the poem 'Out of Catullus' by Richard Crashaw


Draco is sure if his smile gets any stiffer, his face will crack. The muscles of his cheeks ache. The few hors d'oeuvres he snags from passing trays—two delicious fig tartlets and a single spiced sea bass crudo on cucumber—aren't enough to soak up the champagne he's quaffing to make this stuffy Ministry affair tolerable.

Araminta Hogglethorpe continues describing what is surely every single second of her recent trip to Italy with her elderly husband, Humphrey. Draco grits his teeth. He wonders where in the bloody hell Harry has gotten off to this time. Under-secretary Bones swore the Minister only needed him for a minute.

He shifts his weight from one booted foot to the other, gut tightening with a tingling twist of anticipation. Percy Weasley better not plan to monopolize Harry for the rest of the evening. He doesn't care that the man is the bloody Minister of Magic. Draco has _plans_.

Plans that he put an obscene amount of thought and preparation into earlier. Plans that involve his husband.

They were only going to stay for a few drinks and a little dancing, but now Harry is nowhere to be seen and Draco feels the first tendrils of humiliation snake through his blood. Though he knows it's not true, he feels suddenly as if everyone is looking askance at him. As if they know his thoughts and find him silly.

His cheeks and eyes grow hot.

"Goodness," Draco murmurs as Araminta laments the price of tomatoes in a village she and Humphrey stopped in on the Amalfi Coast. He scans the crowd. There's still no sign of a familiar head of black hair.

There's a bit of silver in it these days, of course, especially at the temples and throughout the beard his husband insists on growing lately. And though it's taken nearly half a century, Harry seems to have finally figured out how to tame his wayward locks.

Secretly, Draco finds himself missing the way Harry always looked a bit like an adorably electrocuted porcupine.

He hums in what he hopes is a suitably sympathetic tone, wishing he could tell the ancient witch to bugger off. But Araminta is on the board of _Lumos the World_ with Hermione, who will hex him if he upsets her, and her bludger-shaped husband works in Magical Games and Sports. Plus, it took him years to rebuild his name after the War. That kind of behavior hardly befits the man he is now, anyway: Draco Malfoy-Potter, retired Unspeakable, husband to one of the most decorated Aurors in Ministry history, and father to four rather spectacular children.

And really, Araminta is a dear, anyway.

She just so loves to talk, and Draco has barely seen Harry in what feels like days. With Calathea having begun her first year at Beauxbatons (Draco is still not sure how he let her talk them into allowing her to go so far away, she's just a _baby_ ), the house has been depressingly empty.

He firecalls Scorpius in Romania, and owls Al and Lyra at Hogwarts and little Callie at Beauxbatons at least once a day. Which is even more mail than his parents ever sent him. But that hardly takes up much time. Then his days are filled with the ticking of the Grandmother clock (" _It can't be a Grand_ _ **father**_ _clock because Grandma Molly gave it to us, Dad, duh,"_ he can hear Al say) in the living room. And not much else.

Until Harry comes home. If he comes home. If there isn't another case that only Harry Potter can handle.

Draco knows someone is going to ask Harry to stand for Minister again soon, and he worries this will be the time he'll say yes.

The prospect of him being home even less has Draco's ribs squeezing under his new blue and silver dress robes. His smile falters, though Araminta doesn't notice. Someone—Theo?—calls his name and he lifts his free hand in a wave while he downs the last of his latest glass of expensive champagne. It immediately swirls in his mostly empty stomach and makes his head feel light as a bubble.

"Excuse me a moment, please."

"Oh! Of course, dear."

Araminta pats his arm, but Draco slides away, the press of the crowd suddenly too much. Sweat gathers on his brow. He weaves his way through the crush of bodies, murmuring half-hearted hellos, his chest tight and his heart fluttering.

When did he forget how to do this?

Harry is supposed to be the one who is rubbish at parties. Draco is the consummate guest. Or host. Throughout Harry's career, he's been both. Using the dual weapons of alcohol and charm to manipulate the politics of any given situation. He knows for a fact he has eased Harry's way with the Ministry, smoothed over incidents regarding his husband's _slightly_ off-book approach to solving cases.

Maybe not as much recently. But truthfully, Harry hasn't needed as much help in that regard for awhile. And Draco has been so focused on taking care of the kids. Especially Calathea. Those first few years were so hard, not knowing if they'd get another birthday.

So, perhaps he's fallen out of the habit a bit. Most of their gatherings these days are private, close friends and family only. No one Draco needs to charm or finesse. They all know him well enough to handle his unbridled snark.

"Draco, darling!"

Speaking of snark, Pansy's viper red smile is a welcome sight. He bends to brush a kiss on her porcelain cheek. His fingers shake as he grips her elbow. Pansy knows him too well, and he doesn't want to explain the churning mixture of panic and embarrassment turning his belly into a cauldron.

At her raised brows, he tips his head toward the nearest set of glass doors. He can just make out the empty marble expanse of balcony floor through the gauzy curtains.

"Just getting some air. Back in a flash."

Outside, it is chilly enough to cut through the silk of his robes. Heedless of the gooseflesh prickling his arms, Draco hurries the last few steps to the carved balustrade. He shivers, grateful for the cold after the heated crush inside.

Below, the fairy lights glow like golden fireflies in the mist, illuminating the dark green curves of topiary.

He takes a deep breath, forcing the cool air deep into his lungs, wishing he was down there among the green things, smelling their sharp, clean scent, instead of up here among a bunch of politicians, dilettantes, and philanthropists inhaling perfume and political posturing. Alone.

When he worked on Level Nine, he often spent time in the various Ministry gardens as part of his job. This particular one hadn't been much interest to him then, since the bushes were entirely ornamental. Though, it's still very pretty.

The wide stone railing is damp and cold under his palms as he curls his hands around it. Draco exhales a long, slow breath. His heart gives a few rapid thumps before it, too, begins to quiet.

Never once in twenty-one years has he regretted choosing to leave his career behind and stay home with the children. If someone came out and handed him a Time Turner right that very moment, he would make the same decision again. Being there every day for Scorpius, Al, Lyra, and Calathea is something he treasures.

And if he feels a little adrift now that even their youngest is off to school, well, he's still _him_. He survived living with Voldemort at sixteen, became an Unspeakable, and married the Saviour of the Wizarding World. He will overcome a little empty nest panic.

"You're Draco bloody Malfoy," he mutters under his breath.

The answering deep chuckle comes from behind him and sends a velvet tendril of surprise curling through his belly.

"I thought it was Malfoy-Potter these days?"

Before Draco can turn, a hard body presses against his back. Broad, tan hands dusted at the wrist with dark, curling hairs frame his on the railing. Thickly muscled arms encased in deep garnet cassimere cage him in.

Hot breath tickles the nape of his neck, making him shiver. He has to swallow before he can respond, and his voice still comes out a rasp.

"It is."

Coarse beard hair rubs against his cheek, followed by another husky laugh as full satin lips skate up to his earlobe, the contrasting sensations sending Draco's stomach into freefall.

"You sure about that?" Harry rumbles the words before dipping the tip of his tongue into the shell of Draco's ear.

Draco's knees buckle, but Harry catches him, sliding a hard thigh between his legs. He may be nearly fifty, and a little greyer, but Harry's body is still in excellent shape. He trains hard to remain fit and in the field. Draco lets himself sag into the embrace, his head falling back on Harry's shoulder. Harry takes his weight easily.

Just the feel of his husband's body cradling his is enough to flip Draco's switch from worry to lust.

Up close, he can see the fine lines at the corners of Harry's eyes, and the faded white scar that runs down his cheek. He still vividly remembers rushing to St. Mungo's, heart beating out of his chest. The relief that washed over him when he saw Harry alive was so piercing, Draco hadn't been able to deny the truth of his feelings for the bloody Chosen One any longer.

He stares into the brilliant green irises that twinkle through the lenses of Harry's glasses. Draco lifts his hand and brushes the tips his fingers along the bearded edge of Harry's jaw.

"Very sure."

The answering smile that curves Harry's lips makes Draco's heart turn over. Just like that day in the Spell Damage ward of St. Mungo's.

One of Harry's hands leaves the balustrade to spread over Draco's stomach. "I missed you."

Draco's eyes drift closed at the admission. Harry is much better at saying what he feels than Draco ever has been. He is better at showing than telling.

Luckily, this dynamic works well for them. Draco loves hearing Harry say sentimental things. He craves it. And Harry always gets that slightly crooked, dopey grin whenever Draco does something like buy him new socks when the old ones get holes or makes sure the elves at the house in France know the recipe for treacle tart.

Harry's schedule has been murder lately (quite literally, as the latest case has to do with a rash of killings) and hearing him say he's missed Draco makes Draco's blood hum.

Or maybe that's down to the way Harry's fingers play with the silver buttons on the front of his robes. Draco's lips curl.

"Did you?"

He can smell the wine on Harry's breath as he ghosts his lips over Draco's forehead, his nose, his cheekbone.

Harry avoids his mouth, his tone playful. "Mmmm. I came out here to get away from Percy. I was thinking about you, and now here you are. Like I summoned you."

Draco scoffs, but the sound turns into a choked gasp as Harry presses closer, the hard ridge of his cock making it clear just how he's been thinking of Draco.

It no longer seems cold out, surrounded by Harry's warmth, but Draco can still smell the rain-wet stone and freshly turned earth drifting up from the garden below, mixing with the scent of Harry's skin and the lingering whiff of the laundering soap Draco makes for the elves to use on their clothes. It's a special blend with soothing chamomile, for their youngest daughter's sensitive skin.

Draco rolls his hips, pushing against the tantalizing feel of Harry's erection.

"You've been very busy this week."

He's breathless with want already. All the bubbles from the champagne he's drunk tonight have relocated themselves just under his skin. He turns his head, his lips grazing Harry's bearded cheek.

Harry's chuckle is a rich, decadent thing as he deftly flicks open several of Draco's buttons and spreads the robe open to stroke the sensitive skin of Draco's navel.

"I know. That's what Susan and Percy wanted to talk to me about. _Oh!_ You're keen, I see. Have you been drinking?"

Draco tries to focus on Harry's words, but his mind is lust-drenched and intent on worming his hand behind his back to palm Harry's cock. He massages the rigid length and presses his face into the crease of Harry's neck to mouth his pulse.

The position is not entirely comfortable, but Draco doesn't care even a little.

"Mmm. Yes, I've been drinking." He nips Harry's ear and growls in frustration as the button closure of Harry's slacks proves stubborn. "Take out your cock. What did Percy have to say?"

This time, Harry laughs out loud, his Adam's apple bobbing. Draco licks at it, teeth grazing salty skin. Harry's hand delves into Draco's pants, callused fingers wrapping around his cock and stroking up to the head. One broad thumb circles the tip.

"Let's discuss my conversation with the Minister later, hmm? Right now I'd like to explore this very adventurous side of you."

Draco groans at the sensation of Harry's warm, rough hand tugging at him. He presses his forehead hard against Harry's jaw, panting. Part of his brain tries to latch onto that bit about the Minister, but he's much more interested in getting his hand—or his mouth, or _something_ —on Harry.

It's been nearly two weeks since they've managed a proper shag and Draco is very suddenly desperate. Not just aroused, but bloody _gagging_ for it. He pulls out of Harry's grip and spins in his arms, bending his head so he can watch his hands fiddle with the blasted trouser button.

"What d'you mean 'adventurous'? As if I'm not, normally."

Harry's hands skim his shoulders and stroke down over his shoulder blades. He rubs his lips against Draco's temple.

"Well, that time at Christmas I suggested we— Ah!" Harry gasps when Draco finally manages to undo the button and yanks his trousers and pants down his thighs.

Draco glances up with a grin of triumph and curls his hand around both their cocks, jacking slowly. Harry's cock is thick and slippery with pre-come against his palm.

"Don't be ridiculous. That was completely different. There were people right upstairs."

The edge of the railing presses cold against the curve of Draco's arse, but he is too intent on the feel of Harry's hard length in his hand. He thrusts into his own fist, his cock sliding against Harry's, feeling the tight coil of heat in his gut throb.

Harry nips at Draco's throat, his breath uneven in his ear. "There are people right through that door. Lots more than there were at Christmas. Oh, _god_ , Draco!"

Draco hums in pleasure and lifts his hand to his mouth, sucking at the thumb he just swiped over the slick head of Harry's cock. Harry's pre-come is tangy on his tongue. He sucks the digit clean before speaking.

"I don't care about them."

Without waiting for Harry's response, Draco drops to his knees. The stone floor of the balcony is hard on his knees, but he's more concerned with the flushed length of Harry's prick bobbing before him. He rubs his hands over the soft furring of hair on Harry's thighs, shivering at the way it tickles his palms. Above him, Harry shifts, widening his stance, the muscles of his legs flexing.

Draco grins up at him, wrapping his long fingers around the base of Harry's cock.

Harry's right hand strokes over Draco's hair. His fingers tease the edge of Draco's ear, trace along his jaw.

Amidst the dark hair of his beard, Harry's smiling lips look very pink. "God, I love you."

His heart thumps double time at Harry's rough whisper. He responds by flicking out his tongue to lap at the moisture gathering at the end of Harry's foreskin. He sucks gently at the loose bit of flesh, knowing how it drives Harry wild when he slides his tongue under to rub against the sensitive head.

Draco's is rewarded with a guttural groan and a mouthful of hard, slippery flesh as Harry thrusts between his lips.

He loves this. Getting under Harry's skin. Making him lose control. Harry reacts to him as he does no one else. Even after all these years, it hasn't lost any of its allure.

The chilly night, the hard stone under him, the faint music of the string quartet drifting through the door, none of it is as important as the sound of Harry's stuttering breath. His moans, the warm smell of his skin, the soft weight of his testicles in Draco's palm, the glide of his cock over Draco's tongue; for the moment, these are Draco's world.

Harry's fingers card through his hair until he is cupping the back of Draco's skull. With his other hand, he grips the balcony rail.

Draco focuses all his attention on Harry, cupping his own erection but not stroking it as he bobs up and down, slurping noisily on Harry's cock. He takes Harry deep, swallowing around the thick length stretching his throat. Harry's coarse pubic hair brushes his nose and chin. Tears sting his eyes, but he holds on for a long moment before pulling back slowly.

He takes only a moment to swirl his tongue around the head before diving back down. This time, when his throat constricts around Harry, it rips a curse from his husband's lips. He withdraws only halfway before swallowing again, until the tears wetting his lashes trickle down his cheeks. When he pulls back a third time, he savors every inch of the pulsing shaft, sucking hard.

"Gah, Draco, love, do that again and I'm finished." Harry traces Draco's lips with one finger. "You know I can't resist your mouth."

Draco leaves off tonguing the veins pulsing on the side of Harry's cock to nip at his finger. "You never have done, that's for sure."

His voice is gruff with desire, and from taking Harry so deep. He can still taste Harry's pre-come on his tongue, and the ache in his jaw and knees makes his heart thump faster. His own cock throbs in time.

He's torn between wanting to take Harry back in his mouth, to feel him pulse between his lips and taste his come, and wanting more… like the feel of that thick shaft driving into him.

As if reading his mind, Harry's hand settles on Draco's shoulder and squeezes.

"Get up here, Malfoy."

The words are biting, edged with a hunger that makes Draco's stomach tighten. It's not quite as easy to get up off his knees anymore, but with Harry's hold sliding to his elbow, he rises with a fair amount of grace. When they are eye-to-eye again, Harry's fingers delve into Draco's hair, fisting the fine blond strands. His gaze glitters with intent.

Draco lifts a brow and runs teasing fingertips over Harry's saliva-slick shaft. "What are you planning to do to me, Potter, now you've got me here?"

Harry's eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth twitches. He leans in, but stops when he is still a breath from Draco's mouth. The tip of his tongue drags along Draco's lower lip.

"Turn around."

Again, the heat turns Harry's voice into a rough velvet rasp that rubs over every one of Draco's nerve endings.

Inside, someone laughs raucously, but Draco's head is spinning and his body is tingling and he doesn't care if the entire Wizengamot comes out onto the balcony now. He sucks at Harry's lips quickly before twisting in his arms.

Draco wastes no time shoving his trousers down to his ankles and kicking one booted foot free so he can spread his legs.

Behind him, Harry's lips find the back of his ear at the same moment his hands palm the globes of Draco's arse. He squeezes the still firm (Harry isn't the only one who keeps himself reasonably fit) flesh and groans.

"Merlin's sake. I can't decide which I like better—your mouth or your arse."

Draco bends forward, bracing himself on the rail on his elbow, and glances back over his shoulder with a raised brow. "Still? Haven't you had enough time to figure it out?" He wraps a hand around his own aching cock, tightening his grip because he's already ridiculously close to coming.

Harry chuckles, his fingers delving into Draco's crease.

"Ask me again in fifty years; maybe I'll know then. _Fuck_ , is that…?" He sucks in a harsh breath and Draco knows Harry has found the small looped end of the toy he put in earlier.

The charmed plug is Harry's favorite. He loves to tease Draco with it, using the loop at the end to tug gently so Draco can feel it moving inside him, tapping it to make it warm and pulse, rubbing his inner walls, brushing his prostate.

"You've been wearing that _all night_?"

Harry's voice strains on the last few words. Draco shudders, his own chest and throat tight. He nods, hoping Harry sees him in the low light.

"I had plans." Draco feels Harry tug the toy and whimpers, the muscles in his arms shaking as a thick wave of pleasure rolls up his spine. " _Harry!_ "

There aren't any more words then, not for awhile. Nothing but curses and moans and murmurs as Harry twists and pulls at the plug, teasing Draco's hole. Harry's left hand grips his shoulder, holding him in place. He can feel Harry's cock sliding against the back of his thigh, slick with pre-come.

At some point, Harry fumbles at Draco's sleeve and it takes him a minute to realize he's reaching for Draco's wand. He pushes it into Harry's fingers, whimpering at the tingle of magic in the air. His brain is fuzzy with want, but he recognizes the words of a privacy spell. His heart, already beating as fast as the wings of a snitch, gives an extra flutter at the care.

But then Harry murmurs another spell and slippery warm fingers tease between his buttocks, stroking over the stretched ring of muscle.

Draco shudders, biting his lower lip to try to keep from moaning. He fails, the sound pouring out of him as Harry tugs the plug free and replaces it with his lubricated fingers. He thrusts three in, deep, finding Draco's prostate easily and rubbing it until Draco is on the brink.

He bites at his own silk-covered forearm, the feel of his teeth sinking into flesh staving off the orgasm momentarily. But he's a shivering, whimpering mess and his cock is leaking over his trembling fingers in a steady drip.

Harry's mouth is wet and hot against the back of his neck as he murmurs, "That's it, love. You look so beautiful like this."

Draco rocks back against those wicked fingers. He can't even imagine what he looks like, blond hair sweaty and hanging over his forehead, face flushed, panting. Harry's got his new robes rucked up against the small of his back, holding the bunched fabric with his free hand, and his fine grey trousers are crumpled in a heap on the mist-wet stone of the balcony.

His shaking legs are spread wide, wantonly, as he fucks himself on Harry's fingers. And Draco doesn't. bloody. care.

It feels amazing, and the stress of the past few weeks that has been hanging 'round his shoulders has evaporated.

All that matters in this moment is Harry and the pleasure he's giving him.

"Harry, _please_."

Those pumping fingers scissor, stretching him even further, and the slight burn spreads through his gut like sizzling lava. Draco squeezes his eyes closed. Sweat trickles down his temples. Was it cold before?

Harry sucks at his earlobe.

"Please what?"

But Draco is beyond teasing now. He _needs_ , and his voice is a ragged hiss when he manages to speak.

"Damn it, Potter, **fuck me**!"

Harry hums his approval, pulling his warm, slick fingers free and skating them down over Draco's balls. His mouth is a warm curve at the corner of Draco's jaw.

"Since you ask so nicely."

And then he's there, the broad crown of his cock pressing against Draco's stretched entrance. Draco arches back just as Harry pushes forward, sinking into him to the hilt. The sensation is all throbbing fullness and heat and pleasure so intense it curls his toes. He can feel the groan that rumbles Harry's chest against his back.

Harry's hips cradle his buttocks, pubic curls a rough tickle against Draco's tender skin. He can feel the slight softness, the very beginning curve of a middle-aged belly that Harry hates and Draco adores, against the top of his crease.

Lube sticky fingers curl around Draco's hip, holding him in place.

But Draco is not content to remain still. He clenches around Harry's cock and works his hips in a little circle, wringing another curse and a groan from Harry.

Harry's breath puffs against his sweat damp throat as he pulls back, easing his cock out of Draco until only the head is inside. His next thrust is just as deep as the first, and then Harry is finally fucking him, fast and hard, grinding against Draco's arse at the end of each thrust.

When Harry's hand glides down his thigh to stroke the skin behind his knee, Draco knows just what he wants. He braces his forearm against the balustrade and rocks forward on his toes, letting Harry lift his leg. He bends his knee and hooks the heel of his boot over the rail.

The position stretches muscles he doesn't use nearly as often anymore, but he'll worry about the slight burn in his hamstring later. Now, he's concentrating on the feel of Harry's thumb swiping along the back of his knee, and the glide of Harry's cock in his arse, and the sweet, hot pleasure pounding through his veins.

With each panted breath, Draco inhales the earthy green scent drifting up from below.

Harry's fingers grip his thigh, hard, digging into the flesh as he pounds into Draco, exhaling soft little grunts with each thrust. Draco loves this noise, though he's never said so. It fills him with a sparkling heat knowing Harry is lost completely in the pleasure he's feeling.

There is no rough slap of flesh, only the rustle of clothing and their mingled moans.

"Come," Harry demands. "Come for me, Draco."

He presses his hand down against the small of Draco's back, forcing him to bend further, changing the angle. And then it hardly matters that Draco has his fingers wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, because Harry grazes his prostate and it's like setting a firework off at the base of Draco's spine. It sizzles up to the base of his skull and explodes in a cascade of pleasure-bright sparks.

Draco strokes himself once and then he's gone, his orgasm rolling up and over him like a tsunami, washing him under.

He's pretty sure he curses, or says Harry's name, or both, as he paints the grey marble balustrade with several stripes of pearly white come. Every nerve tingles and Draco shakes with ecstasy. His sweaty forehead presses against the blessedly cool railing.

There isn't a single thought in his head as Harry tenses and thrusts again—once, twice, three times—and then buries himself in Draco's arse with a groan. Draco's sure he can feel Harry's cock swelling inside him, pulsing as he comes, filling Draco up.

He loves this too, this closeness he's only ever felt with this man, being skin-to-skin, having Harry inside him this deep. He enjoys fucking Harry too, but there's something about this that is just… exquisite.

Draco sighs, his breath uneven, as Harry slumps against his back. Draco can feel Harry pressing his mouth against his shoulder through his robe and realizes they haven't even kissed yet. He turns his head, letting the marble cool his flushed cheek, and chuckles.

"What?" Harry grumbles the word, rubbing his nose against Draco's nape. "Aren't you properly chastised yet?"

He loops an arm around Draco's waist, pulling him back into his chest. Draco reaches up with come-sticky fingers to pat Harry's hand.

"If chastisement is what you were going for, I'm sorry to inform you that you have failed utterly."

"Bugger."

Draco snorts. "What, again? Didn't think you'd be able to go again so soon, old man."

Harry's teeth nip Draco's earlobe in retaliation and his knuckles brush along Draco's arse cheek. Draco sucks in a sharp breath as Harry withdraws cock suddenly, then chokes on a moan as Harry presses the warm, slick plug back inside him, leaving Draco full of his come.

A sweet aftershock twists through Draco's gut, making his thigh muscles tremble.

Harry presses his forehead against Draco's shoulder, caresses his hip, and then draws him upright. It takes them both to get Draco's leg off the railing, and Draco groans at the ache in his legs. Harry laughs.

"Who's the old one now?"

Draco narrows his eyes and snatches his wand from the pocket Harry stuffed it in earlier, muttering a quick cleansing spell to take care of the inconvenient mess on his hand. But his heart softens a second later as Harry goes to one knee to help him back into his trousers.

They set each other to rights quickly, though Draco is sure his hair and robes are irreparably mussed. He no doubt looks exactly like a man who has just been shagging on a balcony at a fancy party—thoroughly disreputable—and the thought brings a smile to his lips.

Practically all of the tension and anxiety he's been feeling for the last week—the last several months really, as they prepared to send Callie off to school—has melted completely away. And with the scent of the garden, and Harry, fresh in his head, Draco finally forms a plan.

Harry tilts his head as he sets his newly cleaned glasses back on his nose. He tilts his chin and scratches his beard.

"What's got you smiling then?"

Draco lifts both brows. "Apart from the incredibly satisfying balcony sex, you mean?"

Harry slides his arms around Draco's waist, pulling him close until they're chest to chest. His mouth is a tempting pink curve.

"Apart from that, yes."

Draco strokes a hand over Harry's messy locks, his grin growing at the sight of their wild disarray. He loops his other hand around the back of Harry's neck and looks into his gorgeous green eyes.

"I'm going to open a shop. A potions shop. In Diagon Alley. In that vacant space crosswise from George's place."

Harry blinks once and then squeezes Draco in a quick, hard hug.

"That's a brilliant idea!"

"I can have a garden in the courtyard out back, and a room for mixing everything up. And I can sell my soaps and things too. It will be nice to work with plants again, more than just the little patch at Grimmauld, I mean. And it'll give me something to do so I don't sit around the house all day worrying about you and the kids being gone."

He speaks all in a rush, betraying his nerves, but Harry's strong hands stroke his back firmly.

"Well, as to that," Harry begins, and Draco feels some of his earlier anxiety flicker back to life.

Because now most of the champagne has burned out of his system and he's no longer mush-brained with lust, and he can think about what it might mean that the Minister wanted to have a talk with his husband.

And now Harry is chewing his lower lip and Draco holds on tightly to the delicious languor still weighing his muscles and musters a smile. "Oh?"

"Percy and Susan offered me a new position, and, er… I mean, I told them I had to talk to you about it first, but…"

"You should accept. Of course you should, Harry. You'll make a brilliant Minister." And Draco means it, despite the little cold twist in his chest.

Harry's mouth drops open and his brow furrows. "Minister? What?" Then his eyes widen behind his glasses and he shakes his head. "I don't want to be Minister. Are you barmy? I thought you knew that. Especially _now_."

The tiny sliver of ice burrowing into Draco's heart stills.

"I… what do you mean, especially now?"

Harry's hand cups Draco's cheek. His eyes twinkle."Now that we're finally about to have some time together again, that's what I mean. I love all our children more than my life, but I can't lie… I'm looking forward to rechristening all of the surfaces in Grimmauld now that we've got the place to ourselves."

His waggles his eyebrows and his smile is loving and wicked and does things to Draco's insides that make them feel like warm, fuzzy soup.

"But, your job."

Harry's thumb strokes Draco's lips. "I told you, the Minister's offered me a new position." He cocks his head. "You're looking at the new Head of the Auror Department. If I take it, I mean."

It takes a moment for it all to sink in. Perhaps he's not quite as sober as he thought.

Then, the words register, _really_ register, and joy and relief explode in his chest. He pulls Harry to him by the neck, crushing their mouths together. Harry's lips are warm and firm and smooth and familiar. They fit perfectly against his.

He opens for Draco immediately, his tongue sliding out to curl against Draco's, and he tastes like red wine and fig tartlets. Draco nips at his lips and sucks at his tongue and licks at his mouth, pouring all of his love and happiness into the kiss. His fingers clench in Harry's hair, holding him tight.

Harry laughs into his mouth, kissing him back just as voraciously. He squeezes Draco's hips, pulling him close.

It goes on and on. They make out like they haven't in a long, long time, fighting for supremacy, hands wandering. When they finally pull apart, they're both panting and once again flushed, and Draco is on his way to being hard again.

Based on the glint in Harry's eyes, he's not the only one.

"Let's go home," Harry says through a sideways grin. "You haven't bent me over the kitchen island since Al almost walked in on us that one time."

Not even the mention of nearly getting caught by their younger son can douse the fire in Draco's blood at the prospect of getting Harry over that counter. His tastebuds tingle at the prospect of tonguing the silky, puckered flesh of Harry's hole. He swallows, his throat tight.

"What about the Minister?"

"I'll owl Susan tomorrow. Right now, I've got more important things to do."

Draco licks his lips. His voice catches in his throat.

"Can you Apparate? I've had too much to drink."

Harry kisses his chin, the tip of his nose, his eyelids, brushes his lips. "Anything for you."

And Draco knows it's true. This gorgeous, wonderful man will do anything for him. Even step away from the field, from a job he has always loved, to be able to have more time together. Tears stinging the backs of his eyes, Draco presses his face into the warm crease of Harry's neck.

"I love you, Harry Potter."

The words are mumbled, mush-mouthed with emotion, but Harry understands. He presses a kiss to Draco's temple, his lips a crooked, pleased curve.

"I know."

Draco's huffs, but his heart squeezes hard in his chest. Then they're turning, spinning into the blackness of apparition. Draco holds tight to his husband's neck and relaxes, letting Harry take him home.


End file.
